


Stranded

by ncfan



Series: Helcaraxë [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crossing of the Ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranded

There had come a great light through the darkness, red and terrible, lighting up the sky even from across the wide sea. The acrid stench of smoke came across the waters on a stinging, bitterly cold wind. From the host of the Noldor left stranded in Araman, there came wails and shouts, desolation sweeping over them, as they saw their allies and kin burn the ships and leave them to their deaths.

Nolofinwë's heart quailed to see it. Fëanáro had betrayed him. He did not know whether his brother had wished for him to die in Araman or slink back to Valinor in disgrace, but they had been abandoned here. The only way forward was to cross the great bridge of Ice that stretched before them, and in that path, Nolofinwë could see death alone.

He turned from his staring at the flames, only to find the eyes of the entire host upon him. Watching, waiting for him to say what he would have them do.

Never had Nolofinwë expected to be leader of so great a host. Fëanáro was to be King after their father; it was he who was to lead the Noldor. But now, it seemed to Nolofinwë, there were three Kings of three diminished hosts. Fëanáro was King of his host across the sea. Arafinwë, if he was permitted to do so and if he was even still living, would be King of the greatly diminished Noldorin people who chose to remain in Aman, King of an all-but-empty house. And Nolofinwë, he saw now, would be King of those who crossed the Ice with him, those who looked to him to lead.

Yes, they would cross the Ice. They had to. A hot upwelling of anger swept through him, momentarily drawing Nolofinwë's mind away from the bitter cold. Nolofinwë would reach the other side of the sea in spite of his brother. He would live to see the look on Fëanáro's face when he realized that the brother he had abandoned to his death had lived.

As soon as anger touched him, it deserted him, leaving him cold and weary, feeling the weight of his decision press down on his shoulders like a yoke. He looked upon the host of the Noldor, nobles and commons alike, all of whom looked to him to lead and relied upon him for his protection. He looked to his sister Lalwen, who stood shivering in the snow, but whose formerly laughing eyes burned with the desire to avenge their father. He looked at Arafinwë's children. Their father had left them to return to Valinor; they had refused to go with him out of loyalty to their cousins, and the parting between father and children had been bitter. In Arafinwë's absence, Nolofinwë would have to be father to them as well.

Then, he looked at his own children. Findekáno met his gaze squarely, standing straight and tall, giving away no sign of how this betrayal must have wounded him; well did Nolofinwë remember the friendship between his and Fëanáro's eldest sons. Turukáno and Irissë stood together, the former with his arm wrapped around the latter's shoulders; their eyes were grim, but resolute. And Arakáno, bless his impetuous soul, was shifting on his feet, back and forth, more than ready to go.

They could all be killed in this ill-fated venture. If Nolofinwë had any confidence of the way they would be received, he would tell his children, along with his nephews and his niece to return to Valinor, and not come with him. But there was no choice.

"We cross the Ice."

-0-0-0-

Food, warm clothing, and firewood, these were the things they needed, and these were the things that were in short supply from the start. Occasionally the host would come across spindly trees, short and stunted, along the ice bridge, growing up through the rocks in the soil that must have laid beneath. Occasionally, they would come upon herds of caribou, though they were restricted mostly to fish and rats and bedraggled sea-birds for food.

In what seemed like a fleeting moment, Findekáno had found himself becoming his father's deputy and right hand in ways that he had never been in Valinor, when there was not such a pressing need.

Turukáno and Findaráto aided him greatly in this; as Findaráto said, the House of Nolofinwë was not alone in its presence on the ice, and the House of Arafinwë would always support their cousins. If Nolofinwë had something he needed done and couldn't attend to it himself, Findekáno stepped in to support him. If there was something Findekáno couldn't do by himself, Turukáno and Findaráto would help him.

They weren't the only ones. Irissë led the hunting parties in search of caribou and other animals, much to Turukáno's irritation and worry. He would have rather she didn't do it, but Nolofinwë said that her presence on the hunts was vital in maintaining order, and that besides, she could look after herself, something Findekáno was inclined to agree with their father on. Once Irissë's parties came back, if they had caught any large prey, the skinned hides would be sent to Artanis and Aunt Lalwen, who along with several other neri and nissi of the host, would do their best to work the hides into clothing, or use them as patches for rents in tent canvases. Even little Itarillë had something to offer, even if it was only staying with Nolofinwë during the marches, at his request, for he said to his granddaughter that her company gave him peace of mind.

They all pulled their weight here, as best they could. They all did their best to survive. And yet, there had already been three deaths. Two had died of starvation. One had simply lied down in the snow to sleep, and never woken up. At moments like this, when Findekáno stared numbly at cold corpses and grieving relatives, he wondered about his cousins across the water. He wondered about one in particular, if he was well, and wondered how he had felt to watch his father burn the swan-ships.

-0-0-0-

Irissë and her party were late getting back. That was the thought on Turukáno's mind as he stepped into the tent he shared with his sister, his wife and his daughter, the latter two of whom were present at the moment, Elenwë darning one of her husband's shirts and Itarillë huddled beneath thick blankets, leaning against her mother's side.

"I can't stay long," Turukáno said quickly, when Elenwë looked up at him. "Father needs me."

Elenwë bowed her golden head, looking away from him as she nodded. Turukáno bit back a sigh, trying not to think of the words that passed unsaid between them, trying not to think of what she had left behind in Aman, and what she must have been thinking now.

The emotion that dominated Turukáno's mind these days was worry. Even anger against Fëanáro and his sons for abandoning them was secondary to his worry. Worry for the host, who were growing cold and going hungry, despite their best efforts to feed them and keep them warm. Worry for his father, who was working himself ragged, and worry for Findekáno, who did the same. Worry for Irissë, whose gay adventurousness had turned to grim recklessness, who was growing thinner and thinner all the time, more so than the rest of them, in her often fruitless searches for caribou. Worry for Itarillë, who he saw now that he should have left in Valinor with her grandmother, where she would have been safe and well-cared for, even if her absence would have been as a hole in his heart. Worry for Elenwë, who withered on the ice as a flower planted in hot sand, and would not give voice to her grief.

Would that he could protect his entire family. Would that he could keep them warm, and fed, and safe. Would that he could conjure wood from thin air to build ships, or construct them out of ice, to take the whole host off of this accursed land so that they could sail to the lands across the sea, and find warmth again.

However, Turukáno could do none of this. He was utterly powerless to improve the lives of the ones he loved best of all. He felt helpless, most of all, and perhaps that was why he could not look his wife in the eye as he said, "When Irissë returns, if she asks after me tell her I'm with Father," and left the tent for the cold world.

-0-0-0-

Itarillë hated wearing shoes. She always had. She did not feel that all was well with her unless she could feel the earth beneath her bare feet, unless she could dig her fingers into soft loam and smell the sweet scent of the earth. As such, she had not felt right since long before she and her family left Aman behind.

It was cold enough that her parents had insisted upon her wearing shoes. Well, that was Turukáno and Elenwë's sanitized explanation; Itarillë had frankly much preferred Aunt Irissë's explanation for why she now had to wear uncomfortable leather boots (Much softer than what the common folk's children wore, but still uncomfortable to Itarillë). Aunt Irissë, though she was awkward around children and no less so around Itarillë, also believed in telling children the truth as plainly as she would to adults, and thus did not speak to Itarillë as though she was dense or stupid. Irissë told her niece that if she did not wear shoes, her toes would fall off, one by one, and then she would lose her feet as well. Turukáno and Elenwë might have been appalled at Irissë's bluntness, but Itarillë considered it refreshing.

All in all, though Itarillë would sooner die than admit so out loud, she had to acknowledge that her feet were warmer, if only marginally, when bound up in leather and wool. Especially considering that she had to spend most of her days trekking in the snow and ice, shivering all the while beneath scratchy wool and lice-ridden fur pelts. When they weren't walking, Grandfather would have Itarillë sit with him, which was nicer; Grandfather was very nice to her and he was very warm. But still, she would have liked nothing better than to be on warm, dry earth again, for Idril did not like the snow and ice.

"Ah, the mighty hunter returns, at last."

Huddled at her mother's side in their tent, Itarillë looked up to hear Elenwë speak, and to feel the icy draft of the tent flap being pushed back for one agonizingly long moment, before it was replaced and all there was of the outside was the wind battering on the tent. Itarillë craned her head and saw Aunt Irissë unwinding a scarf from about her neck and face, pushing down her cloak hood from her head. Even with her head covered, however, there were snowflakes trapped in her coarse, wild hair, though they were rapidly melting now that she had entered a place with a fire. "Not much of a hunter this time, Elenwë," Irissë said shortly, shaking her head and huddling down beside them, soaking up the meager warmth of the fire. "We could not see a thing for this blasted storm." Though Elenwë had smiled to soften the blow of her words, Irissë did not do the same, instead staring into the fire, the cowl of her dark hair half-obscuring her face from view.

After a few moments' worth of indecision, both over Irissë's grim mood and whether she should expose her hand to the cold, Itarillë shook off enough of her blankets to stretch out her hand and tap her aunt's arm. "Aunt Irissë, did you see any more of those silver fish in the water when you were out hunting today?" That was something Itarillë had been seeing in the water lately, the bright silver scales of fish, swimming just below the surface. She would lean over the edge of the ice, trying to catch a glimpse of them. Her long gold hair would trail in the water and eventually her mother would rush over to pull her away, telling her that if she did that she would fall in.

Irissë started, as though she had thought she was alone and now was being brought back to some unpleasant reality—probably not far from the truth. After a while of staring at her niece with glazed silver-blue eyes, she gave Itarillë a small half-smile, half-grimace, and shook her head. "No. The caribou will not draw near the water when we are there. Speaking of which—" Irissë stared with her pale eyes over Itarillë's head, to match gazes with Elenwë, who had left off her sewing "—fish for supper again, Elenwë?" Itarillë wrinkled her nose at the prospect.

Elenwë shrugged noncommittally, running her fingernail over the fresh stitching in Turukáno's repaired shirt. "Most likely. If there is enough of it to go around—" Nolofinwë had made it clear, at least in his camp (Findaráto could do whatever he pleased in his, though he seemed to be following suit), that unless there was enough food to go around, there would be no eating, thus explaining the urgency of the hunting parties "—it will likely be so heavily salted as to have no otherwise taste."

Salted fish, a meal that Itarillë had become _intimately_ acquainted with for all her time on the Ice, held absolutely no appeal to her. Then again, being on the Ice at all held no appeal for her either. She would lie awake when they were trying to rest, sandwiched between her mother and either Turukáno or Irissë (more often lately, it was Irissë; Turukáno was staying in his father's tent until late and simply slept there), and listen to the wind, howling and merciless, battering on the tent. She would listen to the wind, and wish she was home, in her warm bed.

"I want…" Her voice trailed off before Itarillë could finish her sentence.

At this, both the adults' attention was fixed firmly on Itarillë. Elenwë smiled kindly down at her daughter, though in the flickering firelight, all Itarillë could see was how wan and worn her mother's face seemed. "What do you want, Itarillë?"

Itarillë did not answer, suddenly ashamed by her wish, until Irissë added her voice to Elenwë's. "Well, my little silver-foot?"

Itarillë screwed up her face, but then gathered her courage and answered, "I want a _bath_." That was it. Along with being cold and hungry, Itarillë felt filthy and dirty and would have liked to be clean.

Lip twitching, Irissë sighed, her shoulders sagging. "I… I'm sorry, Itarillë. You'd catch your death if you did that out here."

-0-0-0-

The cold had finally overwhelmed him. He'd been expecting it to happen for days, had frankly been surprised when it hadn't happened during the _last_ snowstorm. Now, a new storm was brewing, and Ektelion was huddled down deep in the snow, sinking ever further down. There were voices around him, but they seemed distant and remote. His fellow travelers seemed like pale, hazy wraiths, their forms made vague and indistinct by the snow flurries blustering in the wind.

He was alone here. Grown, but still very young, Ektelion had gone against the wishes of his parents, and he had come with Turukáno's host, without any of his family or friends. He could not ask any of them to go with them. But Ektelion had become convinced that none of the host would survive this trek, had become convinced that he himself would never survive to see the other side of the ocean, so, he wondered, what was the point of dragging this out any further? He was just so tired. He couldn't walk any more.

The cold had settled in his bones and in his heart, refusing to leave.

"Get up."

Ektelion didn't hear that voice at first. When a hand began shaking his arm, later his shoulder, he attributed it to the vicious wind. He only realized that someone was standing over him when that someone put his hands under Ektelion's elbows and hoisted him to his feet. Bleary, cold, and horribly tired, Ektelion's gray eyes met the pale greenish-gray gaze of another Elf, who stared at him with concern written all over his face.

It took Ektelion a few moments to focus his gaze to look at him, and to shake off his deep fatigue for his eyes to focus. A flash of gold caught his eye. He realized that it was the other Elf's hair. "I… I thought that… Lady Elenwë was the only… Vanyar here," he whispered, breathing labored, voice faltering.

The other Elf might have smiled; either way, the sudden sparkle in his eyes was dazzling and hurt Ektelion, without him knowing why. "No… My mother is Vanyarin, but not my father. Now just lean on me," the Elf said soothingly, easing Ektelion's arm over his shoulders. "This isn't how you want to die, trust me. It'll be alright; just lean on me."

Figuring that perhaps just wasn't the day he was supposed to die on the Ice, Ektelion did as he was told, tottering along with the other Elf. He could not be put up on one of the carts carrying supplies; the pack animals originally leading the carts had died long ago, their flesh consumed by hungry Elves, and the carts, now pulled by Elves themselves, could not bear extra burdens.

The Elf who had prised him away from the snow's icy grip was named Laurefindil, which Ektelion considered an apt, if obvious name. As the days wore on, Ektelion came more to be at peace with the idea that he might not die at all, and he became more amenable to the idea of talking.

Of course, Laurefindil could have filled up all the silence in the world, even if Ektelion did not choose to help him. Once started on a subject, Laurefindil had to be forcibly silenced to keep from talking. Though Laurefindil, as Ektelion and he discovered, was the older of the two of them, Ektelion was certainly the more grounded. Laurefindil, Ektelion learned, had like him gone with the host of the Noldor against the will of his parents, and thus was alone of his family out here. Laurefindil, however, either wasn't daunted by the burning cold, or was much better than him at hiding it.

Laurefindil was often called upon by the Lady Irissë to join the hunting parties in search of food. Afterwards, when the hunting parties returned, whether or not they had actually caught anything for food, Laurefindil would talk Ektelion's ear off about her. He would just go on and on, obeying only Ektelion's hand gestures to keep his voice down, while the other Elves within earshot would either shoot strange looks in Laurefindil's direction, or giggle under their breaths, hiding the flash of their teeth behind their hands. Ektelion did not know the Lady Irissë, but he did not know if she would be amused or bemused by Laurefindil's words of praise, or perhaps offended. She had such a remote personality towards anyone who was not her kin; who knew how she would react to an admirer?

Huddled together against the cold, Laurefindil would raise his head from the fire long enough to smile at the one pulling towards him, trying to soak up any warmth that he could. Ektelion would smile weakly back, not possessed of Laurefindil's singular strength, but finding it so much easier to go on, now that he wished to live again.

-0-0-0-

When they had caught their first bear (only one of a small number, as it turned out), Irissë had, when skinning it, harvested strips of fur to trim her cloak with; she would have liked better being able to just use the pelt to line her cloak instead, but others had need of the fur as well. The smell of death and rotting flesh had since left the fur, but the fur itself was still scratchy, did not keep out the cold nearly so well as it ought to have, and Irissë suspected that she had gotten lice from it. But then again, everyone had. She hadn't even thought lice could survive in such cold weather, but from paupers to princes, everybody had them.

 _Or perhaps these aren't lice,_ Irissë mused. _Perhaps this is some other sort of parasite that we just think is lice._

It was somewhat depressing to her, that her thoughts could be so occupied, if only for a few moments, on musings about lice.

Though unlike Artanis, Irissë had no desire to find lands to rule on the other side of the sea, she did long to see those lands beyond. As a child, Irissë had wandered far and wide about the streets of Tirion and the countryside of Valinor. She had basked in the warmth, her white skin radiant beneath the light of Laurelin.

Now, there was neither Laurelin, nor Telperion. There was a pale white orb called Rána that ever hung in the sky above them, and gave only weak light that could render no warmth to the host on the Ice. Once she had gotten over her initial shock and awe at seeing it, Irissë had known Rána for what it was: a pale imitation of Telperion. Laurelin, it seemed, could have no rival, nor even an imitation. That radiant golden light would never be seen again. Irissë would never know warmth again.

Hunting soothed her, but only insofar as she and her party could actually _find_ something to catch and eat. When she was creeping along the rocks, bow in hand with a spearman at her side, and others close behind, Irissë did not forget their sufferings and travails—how could she, when she knew that if she did not catch something, she and her kin would go hungry? However, Irissë could forget her grief at betrayal, could forget her anger. She had to focus on bringing down her prey; she had no time to waste on grief and anger.

But they had not found anything this time, and Irissë's hunting party now returned to camp cold and hungry. A single nod from her sent her six hunting companions, four neri and two nissi, back to their own tents, or if they had none, to their own campfires with their kin, if they had come with any. One of the neri paused, looking at her with his unspoken question clear ( _Why are you not going back to your own tent?_ ), but she nodded to him, murmuring "Go," and he sketched a stiff half-bow, before going to his fire where his companion waited.

Irissë cast her eyes around, trying to spot out Findaráto's encampment. Findaráto and his siblings usually set up their tents near Nolofinwë and his children's tents, so that if messages needed to be passed or if one of the House of Arafinwë needed to talk to their cousins, they could do so. Irissë, in fact, had promised Findaráto and Angaráto that she would come and look at the damage done to their tents by the last storm, and talk with her father to see if they had any supplies to spare to repair them.

She spotted Findaráto craning his upper torso out of a, sure enough, damaged tent, a large rent in the material leaving it open to the sky. He waved to her, beckoning her over. Irissë tried to summon a smile as she made the short walk to her cousin's tent and he beckoned her inside, but she could not find it in her. She just wanted something to do. She just wanted something to take her mind off of the bitter reality of her life. But Irissë had the nagging suspicion that something this mundane just wouldn't do it.

-0-0-0-

Her mother had told her that if she went with the Noldor, she would never live to see Endóre.

Elenwë's mother had had some degree of foresight, and had told her daughter this as a last-ditch effort to keep Elenwë from leaving Aman with her husband and daughter. _Daughter, do not do this. If you wish to keep Itarillë at your side, then petition your husband to let her stay here with you. Do not leave Aman. You will never see the other side of the sea._

By this time, though, Elenwë's mind had been made up. She had hesitated at first, it was true, but she had no desire to watch her husband and her child pass over the water to Endóre and never see them again, even if that meant that Elenwë would never again look upon Aman. She could not be parted with either of them. Such grief would be too much to bear. She would have rather died than be parted from them in such a way.

And it appeared that Elenwë had gotten her wish.

Itarillë was always hovering over the side of the Ice, staring down into the bitter water trying to catch sight of silver fish. Elenwë would always hurry to her side to pull her away from the dangerous edge. This time, when she did so, the Ice creaked and groaned, Elenwë's blood freezing in her veins, before it shattered beneath their feet and they plunged into the icy depths of the ocean.

Neither Elenwë nor Itarillë could swim, and their struggles to stay above the surface of the choppy waters proved fruitless. Turukáno had come, had dove into the water and practically flung Itarillë into her grandfather's waiting arms, but by the time Itarillë was saved, Elenwë was sinking, and Turukáno could not reach her.

The pale light of Rána grew dim and faint. The last thing Elenwë saw before darkness was Turukáno being dragged back to the shore, kicking at the hands that were pulling him away. The last thing she thought was that she was glad that it was over. The ice had taken her warmth, her strength, most of her love and all of her courage. She could not hold her breath any longer.

-0-0-0-

Their dead were beyond counting, beyond grief, and now death had touched them far more closely than it had until now. Findaráto did not know what to do.

This was not how it should have been. Findaráto was the representative of the house of Arafinwë here, its leader in the absence of Arafinwë himself—and how Findaráto longed for his father in moments like these. Arafinwë would have known what to do, what words of comfort to give to his brother, his nephew, his grand-niece. Findaráto looked at the bereaved house of Nolofinwë and felt tongue-tied. He was no leader. He was just a young Elf who watched his cousin grieve, and could find no words to say.

Findaráto tried to imagine how he would have felt, had it been Amarië. He tried to imagine how it would have been with him, if Amarië had agreed to come with him, only to die on the Ice. At that, his grief for Elenwë, his longing for Amarië and loneliness at their parting only increased tenfold. He was glad that Amarië was not here, for in Valinor she would not have to suffer the travails of this crossing. In the last moment, Findaráto had leaned over the edge of the Ice, and stared down into the water. He had seen her, Elenwë, sinking ever further down, her long pale hair billowing out in all directions, like the petals on an enormous yellow flower, unfurling in the warmth of the light of Telperion. He had caught sight of one last glint of gold, before the darkness swallowed her whole. It was all too easy to imagine Amarië in her place.

And yet…

Findaráto shook those thoughts from her mind abruptly. They would give him no peace. They would only set him from his dreams screaming, if he ever found the will to sleep again.

Screaming. It occurred to him that Turukáno and Itarillë had finally stopped doing so. The Host had been bid to stop, though they had only been walking for a few hours since they had last taken their tent poles down. Turukáno and Itarillë needed to be warmed and dried before the cold could settle in their wet skin, and carry them off to their deaths. Itarillë had been screaming for her mother, Turukáno for his wife, but they had now lapsed into silence. Findaráto had not been in the tent where Nolofinwë sat with them; he could not quite bear to see them as they were now. He did nothing but meet the gazes of Findekáno, Irissë and Arakáno as they would move in and out of the tent, and wonder why his cousins had fallen silent.

 _What have I led them into?_ Findaráto wondered, barely resisting the urge to lower his head into his hands. The House of Arafinwë was his to lead in the absence of his father, and now, it seemed, he would lead them to their deaths.

Once again, he wished that his father was there. Arafinwë would have known what to do. Findaráto had no surety at all.

-0-0-0-

She had heard her brother's approach long before he cleared his throat, in the attempt to keep from startling her. No matter how long she trod on ice, Artanis would never feel her senses dull. No matter how she felt the touch of the cold on her skin, it could not root past it. She had grown as thin and haggard as the others, but inside she was still the same Artanis that she ever was. She still had gold-silver hair and her eyes still shined as though lit up with some green light. She still had her foresight. She still had her confidence in the surety of her own survival.

"Findaráto." She greeted him calmly, not turning from her gazing upon the water to meet her brother's gaze.

Instead, Findaráto came to stand beside her, pulling his cloak close about his shoulders and seeming to marvel at the fact that she let her own cloak blow loosely in the wind. "Artanis…" He drew in a deep breath, as though speech was difficult for him "…are you not cold?"

Still staring out on the water, on the reflection of pale Rána upon it, Artanis did not look at him. "I am not as cold as I was."

"Are you not grieving?" Findaráto's voice now was thick, perhaps indignant, and not as hesitant as it had been.

His tone stung more than any bitter wind could or would, and at this, Artanis turned to look at her brother. His face was pale beyond that of the snow beneath their feet, strained and stretched, and he looked old to her eyes, old beyond the count of years. "I do certainly grieve," she said quietly. "How can I not?" She could see muscles working in his jaw, and rested her hand upon his arm. "Brother, you are unsure of yourself." Her voice was softer now, and gentler.

Though he would say nothing, the spasm that passed over Findaráto's face in that moment told Artanis all she needed to know. "We will survive," she told him confidently.

Findaráto stared at her, brows drawn up. Some of the pain passed away from his face, but he still seemed thin and worn, all too close to wavering. Where was the smile he had always worn? Artanis wondered. Where was the quiet confidence he had always had. "Have you foreseen this?" he asked her, whispering, barely daring to breathe.

She shook her head. "No. But we will survive."

Artanis longed to look upon the lands beyond, to see a place where she could live as mistress, and not as sister, or daughter, or ward to another ruler. She had learned the cost of overweening ambition and pride at Alqualondë, when she saw the bodies of her dead kin, and when she took up the sword in their defense and herself was steeped in blood. Still, she longed to have just one glimpse of those lands beyond.

**Author's Note:**

> Nolofinwë—Fingolfin  
> Fëanáro—Fëanor  
> Arafinwë—Finarfin  
> Findekáno—Fingon  
> Turukáno—Turgon  
> Irissë—Aredhel  
> Arakáno—Argon  
> Findaráto—Finrod  
> Artanis—Galadriel  
> Itarillë—Idril  
> Laurefindil—Glorfindel  
> Angaráto—Angrod  
> Ektelion—Ecthelion
> 
> Neri—men (singular: nér)  
> Nissi—women (singular: nís)  
> Rána—the name among the Noldor given for the moon  
> Endóre—Middle-Earth


End file.
